When we bought the cabin, we didn’t fully understand what we were stepping into. We knew there were trees—lots of them—and we were told some were wild apples. But we had no idea what that actually meant.
That first fall, as we walked the property, we noticed small, gnarled apples underfoot. Some still clung to twisted branches. It was like stumbling upon forgotten treasure.
We counted over 50 wild apple trees. Unpruned. Overgrown. Weathered by time. Some bore fruit, others barely held on.
We thought, How hard could it be to bring them back?
We watched videos. Bought tools. Studied pruning techniques. And in the cold months when the trees were dormant, we began—carefully clipping dead limbs, shaping branches, opening up space for light to reach through.
It was… humbling.
Each tree had its own shape, its own stubbornness. Some responded right away. Others didn’t. We made mistakes—pruned too much, or too little. We questioned whether we were helping or harming. But we kept going.
Over the seasons, something shifted. The trees started to open up. Buds appeared earlier. Blossoms returned. Last fall, we had our first small harvest—misshapen, tart apples that tasted like effort and joy.
We’re still learning. Reclaiming these trees isn’t a one-season job. It’s a relationship. One rooted in patience, observation, and care.
The trees have taught us more than any book could. They’ve reminded us that healing—whether of land or life—isn’t linear. That with time, attention, and a bit of faith, what looks wild and forgotten can begin again.
Now, when we walk the grove, it feels different. It feels alive. Not perfect, but cared for. Inky sniffs fallen apples. Callie naps under the canopy. And we pause, often, to take it all in.
We didn’t just reclaim the trees. In many ways, they’ve reclaimed something in us too.
